


Settling After a Fall

by hesychasm (Jintian)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-28
Updated: 2003-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:36:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jintian/pseuds/hesychasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas holiday, during <i>Order of the Phoenix</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Settling After a Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to sophiahelix, for the inspiration and the closure.

  
Ron glared at the clock in the Potions dungeon. He could have sworn the minute hand had been much closer to the twelve just a few moments ago -- now it looked almost as if it had reversed direction. He wouldn't put such a devious trick past Snape, especially considering it was their last Potions class of the term, on a day that had dragged on and on and was already stretched to the breaking point.

He fidgeted in his seat and pushed at his book, almost knocking over the cauldron of boiling Sharpening Solution in front of him. Hermione narrowed her eyes dangerously. "Ron, watch _out_!"

"Sorry," he muttered. "Blimey, aren't we done yet? Why doesn't he come round to test everyone's potions so we can get out of here?"

"It's _not_ ready, which you'd know if you'd been paying the slightest bit of attention to any of the work _I've_ been doing."

"I cut up those dragonfly wings, didn't I?"

"Yes, into pieces that were far too small and none of them the same size!"

Ron knew better than to get into it with Hermione. She'd been short of temper all winter, what with her typical overload of classes and her new responsibilities as prefect, and as usual, Ron had received the brunt of it. Sometimes his envy of Harry had nothing to do with the Boy Who Lived and all of that rot. _Harry_ never seemed to catch the rough side of Hermione's tongue, not even when he was acting like an arse and yelling at the top of his voice. When it came to Harry, Hermione explained, it was necessary to employ _diplomacy_ and _patience_ and _sensitivity_ \-- as if Ron had no need of these himself, apparently.

But then, he supposed, there were reasons why Harry deserved a bit more gentleness than anyone.

At the table beside them Harry was helping Neville with their Sharpening Solution, standing well back from the bubbling cauldron as Neville added a drop of liquid mercury. His hair was tousled and his eyes behind the round glasses kept straying toward the door. He looked tired and frustrated and ready to leave, and Ron knew him well enough to know it wasn't just because he had Neville for a partner. Harry had been looking like that all year.

It was as if over the summer, left to himself with no one but the Dursleys for comfort, Harry had taken what happened at the Triwizard Tournament and fashioned it into a private little house, a shelter no one but he could enter. It hid something pained and lonely, and all one got for knocking on the door were a lot of sharp edges and corners.

Ron thought for a moment about saying something across the gap between their tables: a joke, a query about Harry's health, an offering of newt eyes. But Harry didn't look over at him, hadn't looked over at him once during the entire endless class, and Ron hesitated.

At the front of the classroom Snape bent over to examine the cauldron Malfoy was sharing with Blaise Zabini. A second later, Ron heard Seamus hissing at him.

"Psst! Weasley!"

Ignoring Hermione's exasperated sigh, Ron turned around.

"Quidditch with the other Gryffindors? Soon's Snape lets us out?"

It was like a breath of fresh air to Ron. "Yeah!" he agreed.

Seamus looked at Harry, hesitated, then muttered, "You game as well?"

Only Ron and Hermione caught the tight tenseness of Harry's shoulders, though his voice was quite casual. "Of course."

"Brilliant." Seamus nodded. "Spread the word."

Hermione handed Ron the wooden ladle. "It's freezing outside," she sniffed. "You'll all catch your death."

"At least then you'd get a new Potions partner," Ron pointed out.

"In that case," she said irritably, "do try to forget your cloak and gloves."

*

Ron followed the boys out to the Quidditch pitch, carrying his broom. The snow had piled in great arching drifts overnight, and the group's path wound through shallower dips and valleys, churning up the pristine surfaces. Behind them Hogwarts seemed to vanish in the brilliant glare of sunlight. Ron could feel his heart grow lighter the farther away it got. He quickened his pace, hefting his broom over his shoulder.

The term was just a few days shy of being well and truly over, and the Christmas holidays stretched ahead like a vast, endless sea. It had been a long time in coming. Leaving the school grounds, Ron felt like the world was suddenly opening up to him after a dark and arduous journey.

Just ahead he could see Harry, walking alone. Ron debated a moment whether to run up and walk beside him, but his musings from Potions lingered like a gray cloud, and in the end he kept his pace. Just this once, this one time, Harry could be by himself. He'd have plenty enough company at the Burrow in a week or so.

They had reached the Quidditch pitch now. Fred and George busied themselves directing people to one side or another, their voices ringing out clear and crisp in the wintry air. "Oy, where's Angelina?" Fred called. "Alicia and Katie and Ginny?"

"Girls are still up at the school, _packing_ and such." Seamus rolled his eyes.

"Our own captain passed up an opportunity to practice?" George asked, mystified.

"They said they might be along at some point," Seamus shrugged.

"It's a mysterious thing, how long the other sex can take when clothes are involved," Lee said, clapping Seamus on the shoulder.

"Not to mention how long it takes to get 'em _off_ 'em." Seamus smirked.

"And what would you know about it?" Dean said archly.

Seamus scooped up a snowball and threw it at him. "Certainly more than any of you lot." He grinned. "Except maybe Weasley the younger."

Various catcalls followed as Ron blushed furiously. "You're talking out of your arse, Finnigan."

"Oh, don't act like you and Our Lady Prefect haven't been taking advantage of some of those special prefect privileges, Weasley. Or maybe she just likes to practice her _discipline_ tactics on you?" Seamus and Dean roared with laughter.

"We're just _friends_ , you git." Ron sneaked a glance at Harry, who had a strange look on his face. Did he know about the kissing on Halloween? Hermione had made Ron promise not to tell on pain of violent and embarrassing hexing, partly because the experiment had been an abysmal failure, and partly because they'd agreed that Harry might feel even more excluded if he knew.

He couldn't read Harry's expression now -- perhaps he was just annoyed that Seamus was being so crass.

"Boys, boys," George was saying. "Prove your manhood on the Quidditch pitch, eh? Now, we're playing half teams, so you both can take the Chaser position for each side. Fred and I will take Beater. Ron and Lee, Keeper. That leaves Harry and -- Colin, is it? -- as Seekers. And, ah, Dennis, why don't you be our referee?"

The two Creevey brothers looked thunderstruck to even be included.

Everyone hopped onto their brooms and got into formation, Ron on the same side as Fred, Seamus, and Harry. Flight shook snow from their robes and kicked up a slight breeze that cut at Ron's face and numbed his nose within seconds. Ten feet above the ground he could see the lake below the castle, half of it covered in ice, the other half dark and rippling.

"Should I send up one Bludger or two?" Dennis yelled.

Fred and George grinned at each other. "Two!" they yelled back.

The game was on, then, the boys whizzing past each other on their broomsticks. Ron circled the area in front of the goal hoops, keeping a close eye on Dean and the movement of the Quaffle, ducking Bludgers knocked over by George. Shouts filled the air, teammates calling suggestions to each other, insults to their opponents, the rules relaxed and followed only by virtue of habit. Beneath them, the less experienced Dennis Creevey craned his neck as foul after foul escaped him, but no one really cared.

Ron scanned the pitch. The Chasers and Beaters were involved in a sort of tete-a-tete near the other side's goal hoops. It looked like a game of interrupt between Quaffle and Bludgers, as passes got blocked and plays thwarted. The balls snapped from player to player, and the occasional zinger, shouted at the top of one of the twins' voices, could be discerned.

Harry had taken to following a slow figure eight around the pitch. Colin had staked out the exact middle, and seemed to be watching Harry with as much fervor as he was searching for the Snitch.

Ron waited until Harry drew near, then called out, "Having any luck?"

It was a rather unintelligent thing to say, as Harry would probably have gone after the Snitch, and caught it, if he'd even gotten a glimpse. But Harry simply shook his head. "I'm beginning to think one of the Creeveys pocketed it as a souvenir, not realizing we actually need it to end the game."

Ron grinned, surprised at the show of humor. "I bet they'd be thrilled if the Great Harry Potter offered to pick their pockets for the Snitch."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you say that."

Ron's grin spread wider. "They'd want pictures of the event, you know, and your autograph, of course. 'We Got Groped By The Boy Who Lived, And He Even Signed Our Underwear!'"

"BAH!" Harry snorted. In a move so sudden it almost made Ron lose his balance, he dove down to the smooth snow below. Colin started in surprise and descended as well, scanning the blank white drifts for the Snitch. But Harry was already speeding back up to Ron, clutching something to his chest.

"You've got it?" Ron shouted excitedly. "You've got the Sni -- mmpf!" An icy mass of freshly scooped snow smacked into his mouth and Harry darted away, guffawing.

Ron spat snow, shaking his head and wiping his face. It trickled into his collar, making goosebumps screech to life up and down his body. Harry circled from a safe distance, still laughing. "Colin, where's your camera?" he called.

"Potter, you bloody great wanker!" Ron bellowed. He spat again, realized his lips and tongue were going numb. "Ne'er, _e'er_ get a _Weathley_ into a thnowball 'ight!" Zipping down on his broomstick, he scooped a handful of snow and set off after Harry, who was already hurtling down the Quidditch pitch.

Five snowballs at once pelted Harry as he neared the other boys, exploding into glittering white powder with each impact. Fred and George hooted with laughter, their wands already Summoning more. Ron drew up close, aimed and threw, catching Harry in the back of his tousled head.

"Oy! Not fair!" Harry shouted, dodging and twisting, trying to dig out his own wand under the concentrated assault. "I thought we were on teams!"

"Changed the rules," Fred snickered. "Every Gryffindor for himself!" With that, he Banished a snowball straight at Lee Jordan's ear.

The concerted roar that went up threatened to shake the snow from the trees. Ron wove through the flying snowballs, Summoning and Banishing as fast as he could say the words, not even registering who he managed to hit. His lashes were feathered with snow, and the sides of his robes were drenched. Cold air sang into his mouth and lifted his hair. The world tilted and pitched as he darted to and fro, laughing breathlessly.

Harry came up behind him and dumped an armful of snow inside his collar, but Ron was ready for him. He twisted on his broom and grabbed Harry around the waist, knocking the both of them off and into a snowdrift immediately below. They tumbled down the side of it, legs flying.

Moving fast, Ron scooped handfuls of snow into Harry's robes, shouting non-words at the top of his voice. Harry's glasses had disappeared somewhere, and when he got up to throw more snow at Ron he missed by a mile. His hair was completely wet, sticking up on one side and giving him a lopsided, crazed look.

Ron fell over laughing. "You look like a right yeti, you know that?"

"You should talk," Harry replied, flopping down next to him. "Is there even an inch of you that isn't wet?"

"We'll all catch pneumonia and Hermione can say 'I told you so.' It'll be the best Christmas present ever."

"I'm a little afraid of what we'll get her next year, then," Harry said. He pointed his wand at Ron. " _Aridus vestis_!" Immediately Ron's robes, hair and skin warmed and dried. It felt just like sliding into his bed at home, when his mother charmed their bedcovers during the winter to stay heated. He scrambled to his feet to avoid undoing the effects with more snow.

"Thanks, mate." He returned the favor with his own wand and gave Harry a hand up.

Looking about at the Quidditch pitch, Harry shouted, " _Accio_ Firebolt! _Accio_ Cleansweep! _Accio_ glasses!" Immediately the items came zooming toward them. Harry caught the brooms, and Ron the glasses.

He handed them over, watching as Harry put them back on. They made his face look smaller, the lenses shading the brilliant green eyes. Strangely, though, they drew attention to his mouth. Harry licked his lips, chapped from the cold, and Ron averted his gaze.

"Looks like they're coming to the end, up there," he said, scanning the sky. The other Gryffindor boys were still goodnaturedly tossing snowballs at each other, but the fury of the fight had died down. "Want to head back to the castle?"

Harry nodded. "I need to get ready for the DA meeting tonight, anyway."

As they walked, Ron clutched his robes tighter around him, trying to capture the last bit of warmth in the folds. He had a sudden bright thought. "Hey, no more Potions until January! No more Snape!"

He looked over at Harry, expecting to see his own happy expression mirrored on Harry's face, but instead Harry just shrugged. "January'll be here sooner than we expect. And then we'll just have months more of him."

The bright thought flickered like a candle blown out. "Next time try not to bowl me over with all that optimism, mate. I barely managed to stay upright."

"Sorry," Harry said, not sounding sorry at all.

Ron swung around to look at him, his broom tracing a wide swath in the snow. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. He had no idea what he wanted to say, really. Nowadays, it was hard to know where to even begin.

"What?" Harry said. He kept walking.

Ron shook his head, suppressing a sigh. "Never mind."

*

Hermione always knew what to say. She never seemed to be at a loss for the right words, to know how to get Harry to tell them what was going on. Later that night in the Common Room Ron watched, fascinated, as she excavated the news about Cho with all the precision she employed to disembowel snails in Potions class. It was almost...exhausting, really. He listened with ever-growing raptness as the story was poked out of Harry, bit by bit, until finally he slumped in his chair, feeling as winded as if he'd been out for a run.

For some reason, despite his own part in the line of questioning, he couldn't meet Harry's eyes. He tried to ignore the strange burn of jealousy that streaked through him. After all, he'd gotten there first, hadn't he? With Hermione?

Only somehow, it wasn't the same. What he felt about Hermione was just as wild and unspeakable as what he felt for -- well, for anyone, of course -- but he hadn't found kissing her quite as earth-shattering as Harry had apparently found Cho. He felt as though he'd missed something extremely important.

Despite the unnamed fear in his gut, he asked about the kiss, wanting to know what about it, exactly, Harry had liked. He watched Harry's mouth as he said, confused, "Wet," and the memory of him licking his lips earlier that day floated up unbidden. _Wet_.

Ron hastily shoved the image back down.

Eventually they headed upstairs for bed. He covered up his uneasiness with a bit of ragging on Hermione and Krum, conscious of Harry glancing at him out of the corner of his eye the whole time. It made his heart pound a little. Somehow it didn't feel as...safe...to talk about Cho right now, as if Ron might say something stupid and ill-advised without Hermione there to nudge him silent.

So he simply changed into his pajamas and slid beneath the covers, saying only, "Night." Harry mumbled it back and Ron concentrated on falling asleep. He felt tingly and weird, as if his very blood had been set alight, and wrestling with the reasons why meant it was some time before he succeeded.

*

He was awakened by a nightmare.

The other fifth year boys watched fearfully as Ron shouted Harry's name. Harry twisted beneath his covers, sweating and moaning, thrashing like a fish gasping for air. "Harry!" Ron called, his voice cracking on the name. There could be only one reason Harry was so agitated. He tried to avoid looking at the scar, but Harry's face was all that was visible above the blankets, and the lightning bolt shone out like a crooked warning.

Ron stretched his hand over Harry's skinny body, about to shake him awake, but then Harry opened his eyes. There was a wild, crazed look in them, and he didn't even seem to notice Ron as he leaned over the edge of the bed to vomit.

Ron forced himself to step closer. "Harry! _Harry_!" he said again.

"Your dad," Harry gasped as he sat up, "your dad's been attacked."

For a moment Ron thought he'd heard wrong. "What?"

"Your dad, he's been bitten, it's serious, there was blood everywhere..."

Neville went for help, and Ron forced himself to keep calm. "Harry, mate, you were just dreaming..."

"No!" Harry said furiously. "It wasn't a dream...not an ordinary dream...I was there, I saw it...I _did_ it."

Something in Ron's head went off like a thunderclap at the words, and he stared at the scar again. For a moment it seemed to be an open wound more than anything, the skin broken and letting in all manner of unspoken evils. He looked at his friend's haggard face and saw a stranger.

Then Harry leaned over the side of the bed again and Ron came to his senses. This was _Harry_. He bent closer, trying to reassure him that it was just illness, that help was on the way. The rancid stench of throw-up hung about Harry, but Ron gripped his thin shoulders anyway and pushed him back against the mattress so he would lie still. Harry shook in his hands like a branch in the wind, and it was all Ron could do to hold back his own fear.

 _Merlin, what if Harry's cracked? What if this is as much as he can take?_

Finally, blessedly, just when Ron thought he might crack himself, McGonagall arrived. Ron wanted to faint with relief. She would know what to do, he thought. She would help Harry.

Still, as he trailed after them through the cold stone halls to see the Headmaster, he felt an irrational urge to turn and run back to the warm safety of the dorm. He had the sudden feeling that the night was far from over.

*

He was right. Again, it seemed that time was moving backwards. They sat around Sirius's kitchen table, waiting, Ron and his brothers and sister and Harry, and the dim shadows of the surrounding house made it seem like they were huddling around the last patch of light in existence. Ron pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to press out the grit and weariness. He had no idea how many hours had passed since they'd left Hogwarts.

At some point he found himself staring blankly at Harry, thinking of what he'd said when he woke up, what he'd said about Ron's father, about being the one to --

No. Ron shuddered, fighting the thoughts. No, Harry wasn't, he couldn't be --

Out of the dark swirl in his head, there came another memory. Thestrals. Harry could see them. He could see them because he'd seen death, because now he really was different from everyone else, separated from Ron by a gulf neither of them had even realized could exist.

Fred and George were glaring at Sirius, furious at being kept at home like children. Ron didn't say anything. He wanted to be with his father, he did -- Merlin's ghost, he was sure he'd go out of his mind if he had to sit in this horrible chair in this horrible kitchen for very much longer. But in the back of his mind was the awful thought that maybe he didn't _actually_ want to see his father.

Because maybe it really was the worst case scenario. Maybe all of their darkest fears were true. Maybe if he saw his father now he might -- just might -- come out of it seeing the same things Harry could.

As soon as his mind voiced the thought he wanted to hit himself. This was his father, his _father_ , Arthur Weasley, the best of them all. He was not going to die, damn it, he wasn't, he wasn't, because You-Know-Who would rot in Hades before Ron would let him take anything of his away, and if Harry had really had anything to do with it he could just rot there too --

Ron gasped, glancing fearfully at Harry and Sirius in the corner. He was suddenly afraid they'd heard him, that everyone in the kitchen knew exactly what had just gone through his head.

But they were all too busy struggling with their own thoughts, and the small sound hadn't shaken them.

Beneath the table, Ron pinched himself on the thigh, hard, hard enough to break blood vessels and draw a bruise. The pain made tears start in his eyes, but it was a welcome pain, because it at least drove all the other thoughts out of his mind.

*

Close to five in the morning his mother came, bearing good news and the end of waiting. The relief that washed over Ron seemed to take with it all ability to stand up straight. He barely made it up the stairs to his and Harry's room, sinking onto the nearest bed in a puddle of arms and legs and tired brain.

Harry came in after him and shut the door softly. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Ron pressed his face into the worn fabric of the comforter. How could he be? He felt so empty and dry, a skin of a person with nothing left inside.

Harry edged closer. "Ron?" The bed sank beneath his weight, and his warm hand touched Ron's shoulder. "I'm glad he's all right. I'm sorry -- what I said earlier, when you woke me up. I don't know what I was saying."

Something stirred inside Ron. "Didn't you?"

"What?"

With a great effort, Ron turned over onto his back and slid up to prop himself against the pillows. "I said, didn't you?"

Harry's face was white in the darkness. "What do you mean?"

Ron shrugged. He felt weak and boneless and really, what did it matter, anyway? His father was all right. Whatever Harry had said, they would both forget it by morning, forget it as if it had never happened. It was better that way. He understood now, how there could be things Harry didn't want to talk about, because there were things now that he didn't want to talk about either. There were things he knew now it was better to just keep secret.

"I just want to go to sleep," he said finally.

"Okay." Harry's voice was small and distant. He got into his own bed. "Good night, Ron."

*

Ron closed his eyes and drifted. Any minute now, sleep would claim him -- deep dreamless sleep, and when he woke in the morning everything would be all right again. Normal Christmas, normal holidays, nothing to do but relax and play Quidditch in the snow.

The house creaked and settled, and all in the room was still. But half an hour later he was still unmistakably awake. He lay there, flat on his back, so tired he couldn't even rouse himself to change position or get under the covers, yet sleep, actual sleep, somehow felt like the farthest thing away.

Across the room, the sky through the windows had already lightened to a bluish-gray. Ron huffed out a frustrated breath.

"I can't manage it either," Harry said quietly.

Ron, surprised, turned his head toward the other bed. It was still too dark inside the room to make Harry out clearly. "What?"

"I can't get to sleep either. Too worried, I guess."

"You are? But he's not your father."

Harry hesitated. "Well, he's the closest thing to it. Sirius, you know, I love him, but sometimes he isn't always...well."

Ron sighed. "I dunno what's wrong with me. I'm knackered, I am, but can't sleep."

Shifting, rustling noises came from Harry's direction. It was a strange sound, soft and low and intimate in the dim room. "Do you know what I do when that happens? I mean, when I'm worried about something and it's impossible to sleep?"

"No, what?"

"I...well, I..." He trailed away, then seemed to steel himself, so that the rest of it came out in a rush. "Sometimes I pull myself off."

Ron was so shocked his mouth actually fell open. "You mean you -- "

"You never knew? I guess you're a much better sleeper than I am. I've heard all the other guys doing it at least once." Harry paused. "Not you, though."

A mental image of Neville Longbottom came to mind and -- hurriedly, Ron shook his head. "I mean, I guess I just...I try not to do it whenever I'm sharing a room with people. Comes from living with six siblings who really could give a toss about a guy's dignity, you know."

Harry chuckled. Ron felt goosebumps go up the back of his neck, like a sudden waft of cold and warm air one after the other.

"Well," Harry said, "you could do it now. I don't mind."

Suddenly it was hard to breathe. Ron thought he must be purple from the force of blushing so hard. He wondered if he actually had fallen asleep and this was all just a dream.

"Um, sorry, mate, I just, uh...."

"No, I'm sorry -- " Harry interrupted, and from the strain in his voice Ron knew he was just as embarrassed. "I don't know why I -- this is just a weird night -- "

"...I'm just probably too tired to finish, is all," Ron finished.

"Oh." Again, that tantalizing rustle of sheets and bedcovers. Ron found himself staring harder at the other bed, wondering what exactly was hidden by the shadows. He was suddenly, acutely conscious that Hermione wasn't with them, and neither was Cho for that matter, and that they were edging into even more dangerous territory than before.

Anxious to fill the silence, he babbled, "But I guess it's good to know that you're okay with it, right? If I ever wanted to, in the future -- "

Harry interrupted him again. "I could help you."

This time Ron was so shocked he couldn't say a word.

"Ron?" Harry sounded less sure of himself. He sounded like an entirely different person, in fact. It was the same Harry voice, deeper than when they'd first met on the Hogwarts Express but still the expression of each syllable was the same, the warmth that couldn't be hidden even by anger or annoyance. It was just the words themselves that were strange, that seemed to be coming from someone Ron didn't know at all.

But really, an inner voice whispered at him, if he truly admitted it to himself, if he let the thoughts and memories simply come without trying to push them away -- wasn't there something familiar here, too? Didn't he know something about this new and different Harry? Wasn't there something new and different like this in himself as well?

"Ron?" Harry said again.

Ron tried to speak. Cleared his throat. "What do you mean exactly?" he rasped.

A short, endlessly long silence. "I mean, if I helped you finish. You could go to sleep."

"But, why?" Merlin, did his voice have to break like he was a bloody second year all over again?

"Because..." Harry said. And the breathless pause before he spoke again threatened to crush Ron beneath its weight. "Because," he said, finally.

Because. Ron, shaking like a feather in the dark, nodded to himself. Because it had been months since they'd spoken, really spoken. Because they'd once shared Chocolate Frogs on the train to school, once saved a girl from a troll, once saved the world from the Dark Lord. Because Ron's father had almost died, and Harry had dreamed about it. Because they'd been hiding things from each other all year, and because it probably wasn't going to stop.

"So..." he said. "What would you do?"

The bedcovers rustled and he heard Harry get up, his bare feet slapping soft on the hardwood floor. Ron took a deep breath and found he was trembling so hard now he couldn't let the air out in anything but tiny slivers.

Harry was a dim figure, becoming gradually more distinct as he moved closer. The light outside the window was already enough to allow Ron to see his face as he came to a stop beside the bed. Harry looked scared, looked exactly the way Ron thought he himself probably looked. It gave him the strength to slide over a bit, to give Harry room to do whatever it was he wanted.

"Are you sure?" Harry whispered.

Ron nodded again.

Slowly, so slowly, Harry reached out a hand and touched Ron's hip. His fingers splayed over the fabric of Ron's robes, following the sharp turn of bone, the sudden flatness of his belly. Ron sucked in another breath, packing it in tight until he felt like he was going to burst.

Harry met his eyes, his own shadowed and colorless, and lowered himself onto the bed beside Ron. The mattress tilted a bit. Then Harry stretched out, shifting his weight against Ron's body. They sank into each other.

Harry was panting lightly, his breath coming in small bursts over Ron's ear and the side of his face. It made him shiver. He turned, pressing against the pillow, and realized Harry's mouth was very close. "What should I do?" Ron murmured.

"I'm not exactly sure," Harry said. "I don't usually do this with other people, you know."

That made Ron think of Cho and Hermione again, and his awkward, pained inquiries in the Common Room. Funny, how it all seemed so long ago.

Harry's hand had gravitated toward Ron's back, his fingers stroking up and down his spine like he was smoothing a quill. Ron dared to edge a bit closer, all tiredness forgotten.

"I suppose we could..." he said, but couldn't quite complete the sentence. Instead, he tilted his chin up a bit until he could feel Harry's breath mingling with his own.

Harry slid his hand up to cradle Ron's head, edging him forward the last couple of inches. _Are we really_ , Ron thought, _oh, great Merlin's ghost_ \--

Their lips met. And at first it was softer than Ron had expected, more hesitant. But then Harry lifted up a bit and opened his mouth, and Ron felt the touch of his tongue and opened his own mouth to allow him in. Tea and toast from the meal just an hour before, buttery and slightly salty. Harry's arms slid around him and he felt himself pressed back against the bed by his weight. It was a sensation he had never felt before, warm and solid and reassuring. He felt enveloped by strength, by whatever it was in Harry that kept him going, no matter what new trial he had to face.

Tentatively, Ron let his own hands wander over Harry's body, mapping out territory he'd only been dimly aware of before, smooth skin under his shirt and the waistband of his trousers, slope of torso leading up to wiry muscled shoulders, collarbone deceptively delicate, like a cat's. He found himself breaking the kiss to tongue the length of Harry's jawline, nuzzling his throat where heat rose from the collar of his shirt.

They were doing this. They were doing this. He had to keep his eyes open, so that he had proof of it in the slow-growing light.

Harry pressed his hips into Ron, panting harder. Ron pushed up with his own, trying to ease the ache that had settled into his groin, the tightness seeking release. He felt a hard heat pushing against him, an answering one between his legs. "Um," he breathed. "Um, you -- "

"Ron," Harry moaned. "I -- I don't know what -- "

Ron's hands had been exploring Harry's sides. He pushed them down now, slipped them inside Harry's waistband, meeting the surprisingly soft flesh of his buttocks. Harry gasped and pushed against him a little harder. Ron held him close, skating his fingers over the top of the cleft, not quite sure where he was going.

"Is this okay?" he asked.

Harry nodded, and suddenly twisted his head to fasten his lips on Ron's throat. His mouth was hot and wet and oh, _oh_ , Ron arched, writhed, trying to give Harry better access.

He suddenly needed -- he didn't know if he should ask, especially since Harry was the one who had _offered_ , but perhaps if he tried it on Harry first --

Carefully, he slipped his hands around from Harry's bottom to the front of his trousers, working at the zipper and button. Harry stilled at the movements, but Ron kept going. So strange, to be doing this _facing_ someone, _to_ someone. He knew where everything was on his own body, but he had no idea about the possible angles of approach on someone else's.

"Here," Harry whispered. He pushed his trousers down and off of his legs, taking Ron's hand, guiding him. Ron let Harry show him where to go, curiosity fueling his excitement. Harry's erection was slightly shorter than his own, but the weight of it was the same, the smooth, heated feel of it in his hand. He tried a move that he liked to do to himself, stroking down and then up again, over the head. Harry made a strangled noise and his hips jerked.

Quickly, Harry pushed Ron's robes aside, and Ron helped him unfasten his trousers. His erection sprang free, meeting the slightly colder air of the room before Harry's hand closed around it. Ron gasped at the strong heat of his fingers, the movement that he had no control over. So different! He'd never imagined --

"Ron, show me what to do," Harry whispered, his mouth touching Ron's ear. He licked the place where the lobe attached, down to the corner of Ron's jaw and then fastening onto his lips for another kiss.

Ron covered Harry's hand with his own, bringing his other hand back to Harry's erection. Their fingers intermingled, strong and hard, and after a few more strokes he couldn't tell anymore who was directing whom. He felt heat beginning to build deep in his belly, white fiery lightning tingling along his spine. It was nothing, nothing, _nothing_ like anything he had ever done to himself.

After a few more strokes Harry began to buck his hips frantically, breathing like an erratic storm. Ron lost the rhythm, but Harry was already climaxing, his cries harsh in Ron's ears. Warm, slick fluid spilled over Ron's fingers.

Harry paused for a moment, recovering himself, but then his motions on Ron increased in speed and strength, so fast and hard and unrelenting it almost _hurt_ , but in fact it was exactly what he needed. He was thrusting his hips along with it, had to, couldn't help it, because Harry, Harry, _Harry_ , and then finally, there was the edge rushing up like a sudden earthquake and Ron was falling over it, shouting without words.

He drifted a bit, gasping slackjawed and every limb loose and languid. He became aware of Harry slumped against him, his head on Ron's chest. Harry's breath tickled his nipples, tightening them in a not unpleasant way. Ron's hand wandered up to tangle in Harry's hair.

"Think you can sleep now?" Harry murmured.

Ron was already halfway there. "Yeah," he murmured back. "Think I'm good."

*

He slept hard, like an avalanche settling after a fall. And in the morning there were things happening, or supposed to be happening. He awoke by himself, sticky and used-feeling and stretched taffy-like. He looked over and saw that at some point in the night Harry had retreated back into his clothes and to his own bed, and though he made a show of rubbing at his eyes when he sat up, Ron could still tell it was just a show. He knew that much of Harry, at least.

"Did you sleep all right?" Harry said, after a moment of silent sitting and waiting for the other to speak.

Ron nodded, aware that he was missing his robes and that he was pretty much naked. They'd changed in front of each other plenty of times, in the dormitory and for Quidditch and at the Burrow. But he'd never felt like hiding until now, confronted with Harry all the way across the room, fully clothed and fully awake for Merlin knew how long.

"I had a smashing good sleep," he said. "And you?"

Harry shrugged. "Mostly I was worried about you. Big day today, and all." His eyes were shuttered behind his glasses. He was in his little house again, the tiny shelter where he went to close himself off.

Ron could hear Hermione's voice in his head: _diplomacy_ , _patience_ , _sensitivity_. But louder than that was the flash of anger, the frustrated fury with Harry that had been building up to this for months now. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, without reason and for every reason.

It needed somewhere to go.

Ron threw the bedcovers back and strode out of the bed. Harry's flinch was barely discernible, but something flickered in his eyes as Ron drew near. "You should get dressed," he began. "I think everyone's awa -- "

Ron pushed his mouth against Harry's, cutting him off in mid-sentence. It was messy, teeth colliding uncomfortably. But eventually Harry stopped trying to talk, repositioned himself and began kissing back. Ron stepped between his legs, completely starkers, bending over Harry with his height.

When they finally broke apart, Ron gently took Harry's glasses off and folded them up on the bedside table. Harry blinked at him, his eyes green and searching and vulnerable. The morning light blazed through the window and washed his scar into a series of pale, disconnected lines.

Ron climbed into the bed next to Harry. He was aware that he was blushing furiously, and he didn't care. "I'll get dressed," he said. "But not just yet."

**Author's Note:**

>  _Aridus vestis_ as a drying charm for clothes is borrowed with infinite respect from Scattergood Moo's book _Laundering For Muggles_ http://www.sgmoo.com/
> 
> Comments and criticism welcome.


End file.
